What Life Makes of You
by lefcadio
Summary: Everyone has a past, a beginning. The early years of our lives shape who we will become as adults. L was no exception.
1. Chapter 1

_"The question is not whether we will die, but how we will live."_  
-Joan Borysenko

**part i. birth (circumstances thereof)**

By New Years, she knew she was pregnant.

The realisation was met with quiet acceptance; a hint of resignation. Yi Ha-Neul was a pragmatic woman, after all, and knew there was little point in lamenting her carelessness now. The only question that really remained to be considered was, how would she cope?

Ha-Neul had not been content with the prospect of either marrying into money or taking up the family business - and so she had clung to education as her escape outlet. Quietly confident; stubborn; fascinated by languages.

She became a translator.

All at once, paths opened to her that had never before been possible - and one of these paths led her to Japan, and into the arms of one Aoki Kazuo. It was not love; it was barely romance - just a chance meeting at a business dinner in Ginza.

It had been a brief affair, borne of boredom and the loneliness of staying in a foreign country; she had not discovered until later that the apparently mild-mannered Kazuo was, as it turned out, a Yakuza member. Oh, she'd heard the rumours - that her current client had various dubious connections, but she'd never expected that she might become caught up with them herself, somehow.

She thought back to her small, neat apartment, just on the outskirts of Taegu, and knew she could not return like this.

Of course, she told him - and it came as no surprise to Ha-Neul to discover that Kazuo did not want a child, much less one with Korean blood. But Kazuo was not an unkind man, and allowed her to stay until the baby was born. "Then," he had said, "we will decide what to do with it."

It.

As the months passed by, Ha-Neul sat in her room and thought of home; thought of how shocked and disappointed her parents would be if she returned a single mother. Of how this child growing inside of her could put an end to her career. So she rested her hands on her swollen belly, and thought of her child crying out as she left it in the arms of... who?

Because although the baby may have Kazuo's genes, it would never be _his_. He did not want it, and she would never let him have it. Once, she had heard gunshots, and he had not come to reassure her until the following day, pointedly refusing to look her in the eyes.

She did not want the child to grow up in _this_ world; an underground of corruption and violence; distrust and crime. No, it should never have to face any of this.

In her eighth month, Kazuo brought her a visitor - a strange foreign man, perhaps in his late forties. Kazuo seemed to hover in the doorway uncertainly for a moment, before saying, "I've found you a... client. Something to keep you busy." She turned and glanced up at him in surprise, but Kazuo was already leaving.

The room was quiet and a little gloomy; her armchair faced the room's single window, which looked out over the grey cityscape. It was a simple room, neat and sparsely furnished; she had few belongings of her own here, although the sideboard held small stacked boxes; evidence of the cream cakes she had taken to longing for recently.

She began to stand up, but the stranger approached and held up his hands, apologising profusely in English. Ha-Neul smiled up at him and remained seated, gesturing to indicate that he should take the chair near her own. "I am Yi Ha-Neul. What is it that I can do to help you?" The switch to speaking English felt awkward; after so long of nothing but being surrounded by Japanese, it gave a strange sense of displacement. But at the same time, she felt the joy of exercising her knowledge returning - something she had not felt in quite a while.

The man still looked a little surprised at how heavily pregnant she was, but smiled and introduced himself politely, "I'm Quillsh Wammy; it's a pleasure to meet you." He hesitated, and then there was silence as she watched him curiously.

He looked, she thought, far too _nice_ to be involved with Kazuo. Wammy had a kind face; tired, perhaps, and with greying hair - but there was a sharp intelligence in his eyes, too. Although ever since Kazuo, she had learned to not judge on initial impressions.

"Well... it looks like I'm going to need to stay here in Japan for the next four years; business, you see - and when I bumped into Aoki-san at a meeting, he kindly offered to introduce me to someone who could both act as my translator, and also teach me Japanese--" he paused then, and offered an apologetic smile, "-- but I was unaware of your condition, I admit. I couldn't possibly ask you to accompany me as a translator."

Ah. Ha-Neul gave a weak smile and inclined her head, dark hair falling to temporarily obscure her vision. So, Kazuo did not even see her pregnancy as worth mentioning? Though she had once been fond of him, such feelings were now a faintly bittersweet memory.

But... the man who was now here, looking at her with such concern - she would help him, and not for Kazuo.

For _him_ because he needed it, and for herself, because she wanted to.

"Thank you for your concern, but it will not be for long. If you don't mind waiting, I would be happy to act as you translator in a couple of months. In the meantime, I'll gladly begin Japanese lessons."

It gave her a strange sense of contentment to see the sincere gratitude on the older man's face; she knew she had made the right decision. Her baby would be born, but this work would certainly last her until she was able to find somewhere for it to go. Although the thought pained her now - (so often she would stroke the distended skin and feel her heart skip a beat with every kick) - the child's place could not be with her.

The next few weeks passed pleasantly; though she had never been a teacher, she found she coped well enough - and Wammy turned out to be an adept student. They would talk, for hours at a time; sometimes about Japan, other times about Wammy's work (he was, she was delighted to discover, an inventor - whose meeting with Kazuo had been purely coincidental) and frequently, they would just talk about inconsequential things, content merely to learn, and keep each other's company.

She was faintly surprised to discover that she had become rather fond of him.

Ha-Neul was in the middle of explaining various adjective forms when her water broke. She froze, panic closing in, the gloomy walls of the room suddenly beginning to feel oppressive.

Now. It was happening _now_.

Suddenly, Wammy was beside her, all concerned looks and comforting words, leading her back to the armchair. She couldn't help but flush, mortified that he was seeing her like this.

But as she sat there, and the contractions continued (slowly, so slowly they came at first), she clutched his hand and thought of Kazuo in his distant office, relief and gladness that she did not have to do this alone choking up her throat.

He wanted to go and fetch someone, but she gripped his hand tightly, and whispered for him not to leave her. He stayed.

Outside, it had begun to rain; she could see the dark clouds gathering over the city outside of her window; could feel the unpleasant, hotly heady pressure forming in the air. Her breaths began to come heavily, almost raggedly, and the contractions were quickening, the baby within her struggling for freedom.

A gentle tap on her shoulder, and she glanced up; Wammy was extending a hand to her.

"The hospital?"

He asked the question in Japanese, and she couldn't help but smile.

"Yes... thank you."

---------------------------------

Ten hours later, Ha-Neul held her baby in her arms; a boy. Though he was small and a little light, she didn't think he could be any more perfect - soft skin, tufts of black hair and large, dark eyes. She clutched him to her and whispered words of love in his ear, in all the languages that came to mind.

A few hours later still, after the nurses had made her rest, Ha-Neul felt her heart leap a little as she saw Wammy's head peer worriedly around the door.

He... had stayed. Although she knew he was only a client, he was still probably the closest thing to a friend that she had in Japan, and she felt glad.

"Oh, come in!" She smiled at him tiredly, and cradled her son carefully as Wammy approached and sat down beside the bed, looking on in an amusing mixture of wonderment and nerves.

"A boy," she confirmed, as Wammy appeared poised to ask a question., but then he just laughed softly and nodded instead.

"Does he have a name?"

Ha-Neul met that curious gaze; those kind eyes that had helped her through this. And, she knew. This child would not be like his father; he'd be the opposite. This child would be righteous.

"Yes. His name... is Jung."


	2. Chapter 2

**part ii. family (less than is usual)**

Once upon a time, there was a young woman named Ha-Neul; sky; endless possibilities and broad horizons. Her family was not rich, and she was not excessively pretty - but she _hoped_, and drove herself to realise them, those spiralling dreams which awoke her every morning.

She submerged herself in the intricacies of language; played with words like breathy art; studied those cultures, some of which seemed so absurdly far removed from her own mundane life.

Ha-Neul may have dreamed; but she was practical and driven, and thus they became reality.

Once upon a time, there was a young man named Kazuo; quiet, not particularly remarkable, with dark eyes and a grudge against the world. For him, his childhood had passed by in an unpleasant blur; ignored at home, bullied in school - Kazuo wanted to make something of himself.

The world was twisted, and black to the core. He knew it; shouldn't everyone else know it, too? It was too far gone to do anything about; he had grown up stifling under the malignant pressure of their rotten society - and now he had risen to the top; presiding, ruling over a part of the thing which had once controlled him.

Kazuo had no desire to be a boyfriend, husband, lover, father. Kazuo was himself, alone, and did not care to pander to the needs of others, whatever they may be.

He was not an evil man, whatever you may take that term to mean - but from the moment he'd had that first tattoo burned into his skin; that hot, searing needle engraving into him what it meant to be Yakuza - he knew that he would not let others hurt him, or overlook him, again.

Once upon a time, there was a child. Small (slightly on the scrawny side, the nurses had said) wide-eyed and scruffy-haired.

He was a quiet child, little Jung.

And he met his father once. He couldn't remember now, of course, but the day after his mother had returned from the hospital, a man had come to visit her, and peered down at him with a strange expression, and he'd stared right back.

Then the man had mumbled something, and left.

No, Jung lay cradled in his mother's arms for those first days, those first weeks, those first months. But sometimes, when he'd be lying against her breast, tiny hands searching out and holding onto the edges of her blouse, he would hear talking; there was another familiar presence.

The voices were soothing and sounded in pretty patterns of syllables and melodic tones; he enjoyed these times greatly, and settled down quietly to drowse, unconsciously absorbing.

In his infancy, he was happy.

But this is not a fairytale. His parents were not in love, and never would be. There would be no cosy apartment together; no family photos (any photos at all?); no sitting around the nabe pot in winter; no competing with other families for the best spot under the gently spiralling sakura blossoms in the park in spring; no heated arguments and tearful apologies...

No, Jung would never know any of this.

What is it like, to have a family? What is it like, to know your parents?

He would have a vague recollection of his mother. Of those long, quiet afternoons they would spend together, frequently with Mr Wammy. Sometimes they would go out together, too, but rarely. The soft-faced, hazy-voiced mother would stroke his hair and smile at him sadly - he would ask her what was wrong, in his thick, childish voice, still learning to articulate the sounds. He would ask her first in Japanese, and then in English, because he knew it would make her smile again, but this time with pride, and faint happiness.

Because that was what they all did together; talked. Or rather, his ghostly mother-figure and Mr Wammy talked, and eventually he began to pick them up, those oh-so-strange words - piecing together the language forms like puzzles. Jung noticed that Mr Wammy seemed very impressed with his speech (though he couldn't work out why; wasn't it something everyone could do?), and began to teach him to read.

By the time Jung was four, he sensed that things were going to change. His mother withdrew into herself, and Mr Wammy seemed sad. He couldn't really understand what went on between adults - especially these two, who had been the center of his life thus far, and nearly all he had known.

One day, they had sat him in another room with one of his books, so all he could hear were the hurried whispers and urgent discussion. And crying. The woman who would have the kind face in his memories was crying, sobbing, sounding happy and sad and everything in between.

And then the door burst open and she ran to him, holding him tightly and whispering choked up sounds to him that he couldn't decipher. Her hot, wet tears slid down onto his cheeks, and there was a tightly-coiled nervous feeling pooling in his stomach; she had cried before, but never like this.

Because _this_ is something that stuck in his memory. The scent of her; earthy and warm and _comfort_; a jumble of English and Japanese spilling out - but not the _other_ language, never the other language he had heard her desperately whispering in, praying in before - her tears on his face, her breath on his neck; clutching hands bunching up the back of his shirt as he held on to her shoulders in confusion.

Behind her by the doorway, he could see Mr Wammy. He wasn't crying, though he looked a bit sad.

Jung wondered what was going on.

Some people might have called this - what they had made for themselves, the three of them - a family.

But it wasn't a fairytale, and wouldn't - couldn't - have a happy ending. And though he didn't yet know it, Jung would never, ever call what _those_ two had created with him a family.

Because of that single agreement they had made - because of what had happened next.


	3. Chapter 3

**part iii. departure (will i see you again?)**

It's a cold morning, crisp and still dark: pale sunlight is straining at the edges of the horizon, but he can't see it. He's being shaken gently awake, eyes blinking open sleepily in the gloom, and he knows that something's wrong.

He watches silently as the figure then moves to the other side of the room, pulling open the curtains to reveal the busy, colourful lights of the city outside.

The horizon is hidden; it still looks like night.

He sits up, slipping quietly out of bed, and asks, "now?"

A lamp is switched on, and floods the small room with its artificial glow. Mr Wammy's face, seeming oddly shadowed and troubled, looks away. He nods.

Jung is four years old, but already aware of so much; this is why he hates it when he begins to dress himself, but finds his short fingers fumbling, coordination still so immature. He bites his lip and stares at the ground as Mr Wammy approaches and kneels beside him, helping to button up his shirt.

He doesn't know how this was arranged, or what's happened between them. He knows what's going on, but he doesn't know why.

Jung's a child, after all, and childish. The complicated, dark world of adults is still a mystery, and he hates that. All the same, though, there's still a tiny, scared part of him that doesn't want to know.

When he's lead out into their main room, he sees his mother sitting in an armchair, staring blankly at the wall. Her eyes are red and she's still in her nightdress. The light of the room is harsh and clinical; it makes Jung hesitate, hang back a little from his mother who simply sits there - _her but not her_ - looking so different.

But then she raises her gaze to him, and he has _that_ feeling again; that's wrong, so wrong, and all at once he runs to her, face crumpling and tears falling.

He clings to her legs, and she places a cool, dry hand on his head, stroking his dark, messy hair. He looks up at her and sniffs, and sees that she's not crying.

He knows what's happening, but part of him balks - disbelief, denial, not wanting this to be real. Doesn't she sense it, that something is wrong?

And then she smiles at him, a sad smile, and then Mr Wammy's beside him again, taking his hand and leading him away. In the years to come, he wouldn't really remember this. Only a vague sense of loss, and the gentle smiles of the happy times.

When he became older, more cynical, he began to doubt even those. He would not miss his parents.

Jung doesn't ask where they're going, or if his mother's coming: he already knows. It's like a dull ache in his chest that won't go away - the not understanding _why_; only knowing that's something's been decided, above and beyond him.

He's angry and scared and sad and numb - but his tiny hand clings onto those larger weathered fingers as they step outside the tall building into the slowly brightening dawn, as it's the only familiar thing left to him.

-

The airport is huge and bustling with so many people, even this early in the morning. The noise - incessant and loud and _itwon'tstopwhyitwon'tstop_ - and mingling, impolite people intimidate him. Jung hides behind Mr Wammy's legs and shuts his eyes wishing he were back in their rooms, and that it were just the three of them again, quiet and calm as it has always been before.

But Mr Wammy's taken him, and his mother's let him go. They can't all have been meant to be together after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**part iv. education (mostly impromptu) **

At the time, I never wondered if I was doing the right thing. Why would I have? The child was friendly, highly intelligent... and, I felt, needed me.

It made darling Ha-Neul happy, too; knowing that her son would be well provided for. In the end, it didn't take long at all to sort out matters regarding Jung. When my time in Japan came to a close, he was to return to England, with me.

I have many things to feel guilty about, and not telling the child was merely the start. But, I shan't get ahead of myself. It was inevitable: living his life thus far in a small set of apartment rooms had not prepared him for the chaotic presence of so many other people at the airport. He cowered, and clung on to me, and in the end all I could think to do was just pull him along.

He did not fare much better on the plane itself. Jung absolutely refused to open his eyes until the roar of the engines had died down, and then, when he did, gazed up at me reproachfully with those impossibly wide black eyes.

At that time, we began to realise that we didn't really know each other.

He whiled away the first few hours completing puzzle books I had bought for him; he wrote in English - large, unsteady letters, childishly scrawled. Jung didn't really speak to me - although whether it was because he was so involved in what he was doing, or because he resented me, I still don't know.

In a way I suppose that before, I had been the only kind of father he had ever known - but from the moment we stepped off the plane it would, inevitably, never be the same.

Even as we left the airport he didn't ask where we were going. My house was large and lonely, and having no children of my own, thought it was the perfect solution. The only reaction from little Jung when he stepped out of the car, however, was a widening of the eyes.

I remember the sky was overcast that day; grey and sullen, almost a reflection of the child. But he did not complain, and stared at all the trees and flowers in the grounds as we walked by.

The house had that musty, aged smell from lying unused for so long, but he did not seem to care - just gazed up around the large entrance hall, unconsciously edging closer to me. He got used to the space eventually, but I get the feeling that even now, he still finds comfort in smaller rooms.

And so, our life together in Britain began, off to a slow, slightly unsteady start.

Given his abilities, I'd wanted to take his education into my own hands - but, as is always the way, there were complications. We'd sit in my large study, the two of us, and go over maths and science; read plays together, and discuss whatever era of history had caught his attention at the time.

He seemed reasonably content, although he very rarely smiled.

Somewhere along the way, he picked up some very strange habits. I'm not really sure how it happened - foolish of me, but I suppose he was lonely; spent too much time by himself. I'd been caught up in my own work, and then in helping him to study - it had made me happy, and I'd blindly assumed it was enough for him too.

An old man with no experience in these matters was what I was, but we made it through together, somehow. When not studying, Jung would spend a lot of time in his room - untidy, covered in books and papers - but it was the way he liked it.

It happened gradually, but as he grew taller, he began to hunch himself up on chairs when he sat - at first just while reading, but eventually even while studying. He'd hold things in the most peculiar way, as well - with the very tips of his fingers as though not wanting to dirty his hands.

I can't begin to guess the reasons, other than noting that his awareness of what others thought of him was remarkably low, and that when questioned, he merely replied that it was comfortable.

The staff of the house grew fond of him, I think - as Jung developed an inexplicable fondness for sweets; perhaps as a result of having had so few while living in Japan - but he'd forever have a supply either on him or hidden away, and he must have been getting them from someone.

But in those days, nothing was more likely to make him smile than a cream cake, so how could I object?

One day, when he was seven years old, he came to me and asked if I believed in God.

I admit, we had not really studied religion or theology much together, and perhaps this was lax of me. Of course I told him that truth, that I did not. He seemed to ponder this for a moment - biting on his thumbnail thoughtfully, staring at the ceiling. Then he lit upon me with that sharp gaze of his, which he had then, even as a child, and nodded.

"I agree. I was thinking about it last night, reading a law book. How can our legal system be based on he commands of a deity that doesn't exist?" He paused then, and looked down at his bare feet. "It's good in theory, but it doesn't work very well."

And with that he wandered away, digging some boiled sweets out of his pocket. I thought about those words for a long time - simplistic though they were, they'd touched upon something I'd thought he wouldn't be interested in; something strangely close to my current line of work.

At that time, first and foremost I was originally an inventor, of course. It's a love close to my heart, and what I've always enjoyed doing - not only that, but it's what took me to Japan and into the lives of Ha-Neul and little Jung. However, the past few years saw my services fall into the hands of the government. I assisted in developing certain systems or projects, most of which related to solving some of the more... complex police cases.

I regret that sometimes it took me away for days at a time, but it was certainly a fascinating job.

Jung was a child of extraordinary gifts. If he set his mind to something, he would accomplish it at all costs. Childishly simple-minded in that respect, yet so mature in others; it was an odd contrast, and one that remained even as he grew older. One such example was when he took a fancy to tennis (which, I admit, I was secretly relieved about - having for far too long just seen him sit and read, eating cake, with no exertion whatsoever.) I arranged a tutor for him, and within three months there was talk of him entering competitions.

I had not thought it would be something that would appeal to him - but apparently, the thought of winning something, or being the best, spurred him on even more.

As far as I'm aware, that's about the time his strange sleeping habits began - he'd study less during the day in order to play tennis, and then - either through some sense of guilt, or need, or duty - he'd read into the early hours of the morning. Goodness knows I tried hard not to push him, but he didn't really talk to me about anything other than work.

No, we weren't close. By the time I realised, it seemed too late to do anything about it. I'm still not sure what went through his mind as he grew; what he thought of me, of our situation, of how he had ended up here.

I wanted the best for him although I didn't quite manage it, and he didn't hate me - and so for that I was glad.

But in the end I'm just a silly old man - and though he'd never want to hear it, I love him.


	5. Chapter 5

**part v. vocation (you are what life makes of you)**

L solved his first case when he was eleven years old. He hadn't seen what all the fuss had been about - true, he wasn't supposed to have been eavesdropping on that particular conversation, but how could they miss such an obvious conclusion? So he'd stated his mind, given his reasoning, and watched as their jaws dropped and realisation flashed in their eyes.

And he'd been rushed away then, and made to swear that he _mustn't eversayanythingaboutit_ or 'Mr Wammy would be in a lot of trouble for bringing you along, you hear?'

But that had been the beginning of it all.

Several years later, and it suddenly seemed that he had a reputation. The United States, Spain, China - he went where his presence was requested, and Watari went with him.

It seemed that they had settled into the roles of partners; not too close, a little professional - but all the same, sometimes slightly strained. If there was one thing that L did a lot, it was think, but his mixed feelings for the man were not something he cared to dwell on.

Did he resent him? Not really. After all, Watari had been the one to take care of him all these years. But there was still that residual bitterness; that faintly remembered pain that was associated with the time that Watari had brought him to England. It was vague, and it was uncertain, but it was there.

So L ignored it, and accepted Watari's assistance knowing, at least, his good intentions. He couldn't deny that he was useful, either.

He was not as oblivious as people thought; did he just look as though he didn't notice, or as though he didn't care? L saw the way the people he met stared at him; whispered to each other as though he, someone so renowned for his observation and deduction skills, wouldn't realise.

And perhaps it was true, maybe they were right: he didn't really care. But as a fifteen year old boy, sitting hunched up in his chair at night, book in hand, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd have turned out differently under other circumstances. Could he have been like other people?

But in the end, logic won out, and of course - none of that mattered. He felt little empathy for most people, although he knew his social ineptitude contributed to that. He wasn't lonely - or at least, he didn't think so - but he had known little else, and he was hardly in the best position to become close to others, even if he'd wanted to.

L couldn't really say if he _enjoyed_ what he did - but it certainly gave a feeling of satisfaction to complete a case, to be able to say he'd helped justice; helped that flawed legal system he'd noticed so long ago.

So it was all quite straight forward, really: he liked to win. Sometimes, though, it was just too easy, and he couldn't help but wonder why no-one else had solved that particular case yet. It was adequate, but sometimes it was dull.

And that was life.

Until, of course, he was called in for the Kira case, and met a boy named Yagami Light. L was twenty one at the time, and as the initial pieces of what was going on began to sink into place... he smiled.

Because this... this would not be dull at all.

_-End_


End file.
